


Canmore

by Thamys020



Category: 11th Century CE RPF
Genre: I mean, M/M, Trans Character, and he's a bastard, bastardized Scottish history, but like England was not the only country in the 11th century, canmore is trans and gay, fuck the Norman invasion, he's an illegitimate fuck, he's chill, it's trans Canmore time, not that I don't love Harold godwinsson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24417211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thamys020/pseuds/Thamys020
Summary: This wasn't her destiny.
Relationships: Malcolm III/MacDuff
Kudos: 4





	Canmore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyone who thinks the 11th century isn't just england](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=everyone+who+thinks+the+11th+century+isn%27t+just+england).



> ENGLAND WAS NOT THE ONLY COUNTRY IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY SEND POST

Once there was a little girl with curly red hair. 

She was born in squalor, to a disgraced waitress who slept with a king in a barn for the pigs. And the little girl, once she was ripped from the womb screamed. But not from fright. Not from a desire for warmth. From injustice, from hate, from

_ Fury  _

Because this wasn’t her destiny. 

She grew to be an angry little girl, covered in dirt with unmanageable hair, freckles covering every inch of her with bright green eyes that had a certain slyness to them. She was clever, but little girls weren’t supposed to be clever so she took her rage out on everything she could touch. She wanted more. She knew she needed more. That she was destined for greatness. 

Once she learned she was of the royal bloodline, she knew she was all wrong. Because the king didn't want little girls. He wanted sons, because her half brother was-

_ Sickly _

_ Weak _

**_Unworthy_ **

And so the little girl, now orphaned by a mother who couldn’t take care of her, stole a tunic, stuffed her pants, pulled on some mismatched boots, washed her face, and stalked up to the palace.    
She had a bastard’s confidence. The confidence of a little boy who knew he could only inflict harm upon the father that abandoned him if he spoke, and so the little girl spoke. 

“My name is Malcolm, and my father is King Duncan.” 

They could tell. And so the little girl was a little girl no longer. She was something more. Different. Special.

_ PRINCE Malcolm III of Scotland _ . 

And she became he, and the little now-boy could do what he liked. This was his destiny. He was to be king. A far cry from his days slogging pig droppings. 

But Macbeth happened.

He was here to take his new not-so-kind father away. 

He was here to take Malcolm’s destiny away. 

And Malcolm was seven and he could not let that happen. He  _ would not _ let  _ Macbeth _ , the mormaer of Moray, who let Malcolm and his mother waste away  _ have what was HIS _ . 

He had just gotten what was his and he could not let anyone else have it. 

But Malcolm was but a child, and was spirited to England, away from the sickly brother he had grown to love, away from what was rightfully his. 

His mother used to say the only way to make a place safe was to make it your own. 

And so Malcolm would make his little place in England his own. 

England was strange. They yelled when he spoke gaelic, all except for his family. His uncle-though not by blood, his brother’s uncle and aunt and cousins. 

But Donalbain wasn’t here, was he. 

This place was  _ Malcolm’s _ now. They were his aunt and uncle, his little cousins. His new home in England. 

The language was, albeit, strange. Malcolm did have to get used to it, but it was alright. He had Osbjorn to help him translate, and Waltheof to read to him, because Malcolm himself couldn’t read. He had tried but he couldn’t learn. The letters would twist and misshape every time he tried, regardless of what language he was reading in. 

And when Malcolm was ten-and-seven (sort of??) he met someone new. 

A Scot for the first time in forever. 

Taller than Malcolm. Broader than Malcolm. It was if the gods had looked at Malcolm’s father and spat on his image, to create the perfect man and this was their result. Because this man was

He was

_ Perfect _ . 

Malcolm breathed. “ _ Perfect _ .” He whispered. 

Osbjorn teased him about the mysterious Scot for an entire week until the Scot sought Malcolm out. 

His name was Duff Mac Duff. Malcolm introduced himself as Malcolm  _ Mac _ Duncan. Because he was a boy, he realized. Despite the chest he had bound away and the absence of a dick between his legs, he was a man now. And Duff and Malcolm talked that day. 

And maybe did a little more than two men were allowed to do when they reached Duff’s room for the night. 

Duff had called Malcolm  _ beautiful _ and Malcolm had never heard that spoken about himself. Not him, with his too-obvious hips and his too-loose tunics  to hide what shouldn’t be there and his messy messy hair. 

Malcolm had yanked Duff by the cloak and they had kissed. Duff’s hands cupped Malcolm’s body just right, and Malcolm’s hands entangled in Duff’s beautiful hair. 

Then Duff pinned Malcolm to the bed and started to take off his tunic. 

“No. Not yet.”    
“Why not?” 

“I can’t say. You would hate me.” 

“I could never hate you.” 

There was a silence. Malcolm finally admitted it in the semi-darkness of the room. He told Duff what he hadn’t told a soul. And Duff had said  _ okay _ and  _ that’s fine. I don’t care  _ and  _ you’re beautiful.  _

And Malcolm had yanked off his own tunic in frustration, gesturing to the bandages on his chest.  _ TITS! _ He cried out. 

And Duff had kissed him. Maybe it was to shut Malcolm up but by god he didn't care and kissed back. Duff was gentle and kind and so great. 

Malcolm and Duff only grew closer after that. 

Once there was a young man. 

A young man who went to war with a terrible secret growing in his belly, and took the kingdom that wasn’t necessarily his with a whole lot of arson and even more death. He wasn’t a good person, not by a long shot. 

But he knew that he had gotten what was his. And that was maybe enough. 


End file.
